Engraved
by Calloniel
Summary: One shots for the QLFC Season III thing. Ch 4 - "It's his first day on the job. He gives the Headmaster a detention, Peeves is terrible, he meets Sirius Black and James Potter, and Mrs Norris is allergic to children. All in all, a horrible first day." Ch 5 - "Sirius is gone. Remus is fine."
1. Chapter 1

hello lovelies ~

I'm helping out a friend with her competition, so I guess i'm a member of a quidditch team now? yeah, I get a prompt and have to write harry potter one shots -thumbs up- it's pretty fun. I think it's cool to post all them into one story, so I'll probably have a couple more in here. Just one for now.

QLFC Season III: Round 13

 _prompts are:_ repeat, evasive, and hairbrush

 _summary:_ The hairbrush was important to her, a symbol. That symbol became even stronger when Draco Malfoy came into the picture.

 _pairing:_ hints of Draco/Hermione whoops

* * *

If it had been any other day, it wouldn't have bothered her so much.

However, since today was the day it was—a day where Hermione would rather have stayed in bed to avoid the teasing she knew was to come and a day where even the sun hadn't bothered with showing itself—it irked her a great deal.

 _I should have stayed in bed,_ was the morose thought. The first year student stared at the toilet bowl with carefully masked rage and disgust. Tears slid down her youthful, puffy cheeks. Her oversized teeth worked at the skin of her lip to keep the sobs in her mouth. She didn't want to give them the satisfaction.

 _No_ , Hermione thought firmly, _I won't_.

The giggles of the Slytherin girls at her back only fueled the part of her seething like a rabid dog. The Gryffindor wanted to glare at them, to snap back, a witty response dancing on the back of her tongue, but the result wouldn't be nearly satisfying enough.

She had studied ahead and as a result had a list of particularly nasty jinxes and spells under her belt. That didn't necessarily mean she could cast any of them, but the thought that she knew something her bullies did not appeased her slightly.

Hermione dragged her fingertips beneath her eyes to wipe away the tears. She coughed lightly and, with a swish of her wand, began to bring her items out of the toilet. One toothbrush, frayed from use, one hairbrush equally abused, a couple of hair ties that were a twist away from snapping, and at the bottom of the porcelain was a flash of red and gold—her brand new Gryffindor scarf, twisted and mutilated beyond recognition.

The rage swelled, as did a new set of tears. She furiously dragged her arm across her watering eyes, an action that did not go unnoticed by the Slytherin girls - Pansy Parkinson in particular let out a snort, pig-like nose wrinkled with laughter.

"Aw, is the wittle Gryffindor crying?" Pansy sneered, elbows jabbing her peers as if they would miss the joke. Hermione focused on remembering a heating charm—there was a spell to dry things, she knew she had read it, but in the moment she couldn't recall. She did remember how to knock the Slytherin on her rear end with a face the size of France but she, unfortunately, had more self-control than that.

She shook her head and grabbed at the roll of toilet paper and began to attempt to dry the soiled items. The toothbrush needed replacing anyway, she reasoned with herself. She could get another scarf and more hair ties. She didn't tie her hair up all that much anyway, so it wasn't that bad. But the brush…

It wasn't the best quality brush, not in the slightest. It hardly did its job of taming her wild hair, but its use wasn't what was important to her. It was the fact that it was a gift from her grandmother, white bristles turned yellow with age and a silver and gold handle of wood. Her initials, HG, were carefully engraved on the back along with a sweet message of love and family. She traced the water swollen letters with toilet paper and wondered what her grandmother would think of the situation.

"Look at the Mudblood!" Pansy cackled. "Drying her trash like a muggle. What, don't you know how to dry it like a proper witch?"

Hermione didn't have the restraint to stop herself from whirling around, eyes fierce as she snapped back, "Do you?"

There was a pause as the gaggle of girls glanced at each other, the quick response they expected from their leader not forthcoming. Pansy's mouth opened and closed, looking remarkably like a fish, and Hermione was just feeling vindictive enough to point out the improvement the expression was to her normal pig face when the attention in the room shifted.

It was a strange thing, watching Draco Malfoy stride into the girls' lavatory. His robes were pristine as ever, silver and green—eye-catching when compared with the platinum blonde of his hair. His pointed features were oddly unfamiliar when not directed Hermione's way with a scowl marring an otherwise handsome face. Crabbe and Goyle hung just behind and to the side like enormous vultures, barely noticeable from the ever pristine pure-blooded _git_ who tossed a disinterested glance to the girls now cooing at his presence.

"Pansy, what are you gaping about like a fish for?" Draco Malfoy did not mumble, and his words were crisp and clear. "And why would you tell me to come _here?_ God, it's disgusting." The first year girl focused on drying her things, ignoring the queasy feeling in her stomach at the newcomer's presence. She didn't need more people milling about to witness her humiliation.

 _Not humiliation,_ she scolded herself. _You are not humiliated. You are strong. You will not cry in front of that… that…_ loser.

"Draco!" Pansy had found her voice. "We just came in to powder our noses—"

 _What a load of poppycock_ , Hermione scowled.

"When we found the Mudblood having some… issues." This time her giggle was exceedingly feminine, very different from her normal snort.

There was a shuffle as the boys undoubtedly approached to see what their friend was talking about. Hermione gathered up her things, nowhere near dry enough, and made a half-hearted attempted to stash the items in the folds of her robes. Brown eyes clashed with grey as the two stared each other down.

Hermione refused to be bullied by a stuck-up git like Draco Malfoy.

His lips curled as he observed the soaked bundle in her hands. "What have we here? Your belongings are where they belong, in the trash?" The quip brought forth a round of laughter from his followers and Hermione's cheeks ached as she bit into the flesh. She could handle this—she could handle this easily.

Draco let his gaze linger on her face, assessing her swollen eyes and red cheeks. It wasn't a kind stare, but the intense assessment of a predator sensing weakness. Hermione hoped that her eyes did not betray her as she stared back with equal intensity.

Eventually he chortled. "Look at her ugly mug! You look terrible, Granger. No wonder you're hiding in a bathroom. Did someone toss your things in the loo?"

Heat flared through her and she stalked forward, shouldering past him and his goons, past the girls who were now in stitches over her misfortune. She ignored Draco's exclamation that she had touched him, that he was _infected_ , and made her way out the door. She didn't notice the hairbrush fall from her bundle, and by the time she did, all the way up in Gryffindor tower where she could cry without feeling she had lost, it was too late to retrieve it.

Three days later, she received a parcel from a handsome eagle owl who looked down his beak at her with haughty golden eyes. A strangely familiar expression, and she opened the brown wrapped package with caution.

Inside, wrapped with a beautiful black fabric, was a silver and green hairbrush. The back was adorned with small, glittering gems, the bristles straight and white. Hermione hadn't quite been indoctrinated to the Gryffindor way of thinking that such colors together were a grotesque symbol of cruelty and _bloody Slytherins,_ and as a result she was able to find the metal brush extraordinarily beautiful. She twisted and turned the metal between her fingers, gentle and soft, as though by some sort of miraculous power she would damage such a pretty gift.

Gift. Hermione frowned, glancing about the mostly full Great Hall, attempting to find a clue of the sender. It was worth obvious money, more than any of her meager number of friends had. She was raised not to accept charity, and this was most definitely charity. The Gryffindor peered back into the box, lifting the silk to find a small note tucked away.

 _Your hair is an eyesore and disturbing the general populace. Fix it,_ the note read. Her hand went to her head to pat down the unruly curls as crimson flooded her cheeks. Not having a brush, even one that didn't work, had been a bit difficult in the mornings, and a decent amount of time had been spent searching for some sort of spell, since there undoubtedly was a spell - wizards and witches had a spell for everything.

Brain whirling, connecting the dots, she glanced discreetly over to the Slytherin table. Draco was where he normally sat, deceptively small between the hulking frames of his lackeys. Pansy leaned over Goyle to chatter at him but the boy was obviously distracted.

He was staring at her.

She swallowed and despite the fact she wanted to stare him down into the earth, curious, a simple glance was enough to answer the unspoken question, as well as announce a new unspoken rule between them.

They would never speak of it. Ever.

They turned away from each other at the same time, evasive, secretive, Draco scowling at Blaise Zabini as he said something, Hermione rewrapping the brush with delicate care and stashing it in her robes. It seemed wrong, somehow, like she was lying to somebody, as if this wasn't meant to be a secret. But it was.

It didn't come up in second year, when Draco was proudly proclaiming his heritage and spilling his secrets to Harry and Ron under the guise of Crabbe and Goyle.

Nor did it come up during third year, when the hippogriff put the Slytherin in his place and sent the boy into a rampage.

Fourth year came and went as he passed out "Potter Stinks!" badges with the cruel smirk she was more than familiar with.

And when he questioned her personally about the actions of Dumbledore's Army during fifth year and demanded the names of everyone involved, there was nothing but silence between them.

The next time the silver and green brush came up was during their sixth year, and ironically, the confrontation took place inside a bathroom.

It had been the sound of choked sobs that had lured her to the boys' bathroom. It was curiosity that made her stay. She hadn't ever thought that she would see Draco Malfoy cry. Hermione couldn't have imagined him looking anything other than his smug, pristine self, calling her slurs and cursing Harry's name. But, as he braced himself against the sink, bags under his eyes and skin looking grey in the low light, she found that he was not the same. There was weakness in his armor, and when she spoke, she was no longer the quiet first year who couldn't help the flames of embarrassment coloring her neck and cheeks.

She was Hermione Granger who had faced perils unimaginable and was still kind enough to extend a hand to a wounded enemy.

"Are you alright?" she asked quietly. He didn't look hurt, but not every injury was on the outside.

He didn't jump and curse as she had expected. Instead, his shoulders bowed as though a heavy weight had begun to crush him. Perfect posture that had no doubt been ingrained into his genetic DNA was tossed aside for the slump of a defeated man. "What do you want, Granger?" he scowled. Steel eyes stared her down from the mirror, but his voice lacked bite and his gaze couldn't hold a match to the flame he had once exuded before.

Hermione took a step forward. "Nothing," she said quietly. "I just wanted to see if you were okay."

There was venom in his words as he spat, "Well, I'm fine. I don't need a Mudblood like you asking after me. Why don't you go find your little friends and go save the day together." Words that he had said before, but Hermione found that they didn't sting as they normally did. She wondered if her skin had grown thicker or if his voice had just lost whatever it was that had made him seem so cruel.

She respected his wish to be alone—she should probably tell Harry and Ron about it anyway—but as she turned to leave, hand braced against the stone, she found that she suddenly had the courage to ask. "Malfoy," she started, paused, swallowed.

"What," he snarled, but it was more of a whimper in her ears, pleading for her to leave. The word was on repeat in her ears, _what_ , telling her that it was a secret and they had promised not to talk about it.

She turned. "When we were in our first year, Pansy threw my things in the toilet. Do you remember?" Draco did not answer, and she continued on. She hadn't expected him to. "One of them was a hairbrush. My grandmother gave it to me." Another pause, a moment for him to interject with whatever snide remark was probably on the tip of his tongue. But he didn't interrupt and when Hermione spoke, she did not stop this time. "It was a terrible hairbrush, and it didn't do a thing with my hair, but it was a gift, and I loved it. It was from family. I cried, and you told me that it was where it belonged—in the trash." Her fingers curled into fists. "Three days later a brand new brush was gifted to me in the mail. It was silver and green. It was beautiful." She swallowed. "You sent it, didn't you?"

There was a pause before he replied. "Go away, Granger."

"I still have it," she found herself spouting out like a leaky faucet, attempting to tell the boy before her something but unable to say it plainly. "I use it every day. It's much better than my grandma's was."

The boy snorted and turned from the sink, glaring at her with a critical stare. "What is this, some sort of love confession?" A laugh. "Sorry, but I don't associate with people so below me. You're hardly worthy of a kiss."

"No," she denied, and it was true. She didn't love Draco—not in the slightest. "I just… I wanted to say thank you."

His expression didn't change. "Well, you've said it. Why don't you bugger off now? Better yet," he drawled as he started to walk towards her. Oddly, she didn't feel queasy at his approach now, nor did she feel scared. "I'll go ahead and leave. You can stay here, have yourself another sob fest." He pushed by her, and he was gone.

Hermione stayed for only a moment before she left as well, limbs feeling decidedly lighter. She needed to find Harry and Ron, but before she did, she stopped by her dorm. It was there, on the nightstand by her bed. She crawled over the soft duvet to seat herself amongst the red and gold, cool metal in hand, and dragged the brush through the curled tangles that prowled about her head.

Once upon a time, the silver and green amongst the red and gold had felt unnatural—it had been almost unreal. It felt a bit more like home now.

In the dungeon below, a platinum-haired boy dragged the pads of his fingers across engraved wood, contemplating the faded silver and gold paint and the yellowed bristles. "You're welcome," he said quietly. He returned the aged item to his trunk before he departed for the Room of Requirement.

Draco Malfoy was good at compartmentalizing. As he contemplated the murder of a man, it was easy enough to force down the thoughts of a bushy-haired, chubby-cheeked first year and a brush of gold and silver.


	2. Chapter 2

hello m'dears ~

I have another thing from the competition thing c: this one was a little bit more difficult, since our team was assigned a character, then we had to pick another character, and then pick prompts, so we got... like... 10 prompts (don't question my math okay)

but yeah! so here is my thing

QLFC Season III: Finals! Round 1

 _team character:_ Bellatrix Lestrange

 _chosen character:_ Narcissa Malfoy

 _prompts are:_ ink, marbles, and pride (emotion)

 _summary:_ She was a murderer, but when she reflected on it she found she didn't care. Murder was just killing. Killing was just a tool. Tools got her what she wanted. That was all she cared about.

 _pairing:_ none

* * *

Her first night in Azkaban, after the screaming and screeching was done, her throat aching, eyes burning, Bellatrix recalled the first time she had killed something. A thing, not a one, because that was the defining moment when she realized who she would become, who she would always be, and the path of destiny that she had been fated to walk down. It had been the road that had stained her arm in ink and blood.

She was a murderer, but when she reflected on it she found she didn't care. Murder was just killing. Killing was just a tool. Tools got her what she wanted. That was all she cared about.

Narcissa had found her in the backyard, poking at the black house cat their mother had gifted to be her familiar. Bellatrix didn't use her wand to observe the intestines—a small stick sufficed. The polished 12 ¾" walnut with dragon heartstring was too precious a gift to be used on something so unimportant. The air was permeated with the rotten stench the young girl would come to fondly recognize as decomposing flesh, hastened by the heat of the day. She pondered the length of time it would take for the skin and muscle to fall away and become earth, and when the beetles would arrive to pick at the corpse. It wouldn't be long before only the pearly bones remained as evidence of her little experiment. Maybe she would keep the bones as a keepsake. She did, as she found out later, have a fondness for bones.

"What are you doing?" Narcissa asked, squatting down beside her. Pale hands kept the hem of her dress from dragging in the blood soaked grass, but Bellatrix didn't care that her dress was dirtied. The knife was tucked into the folds of her skirts, bloodying the rich, white material beyond repair, sweat staining her armpits and uncomfortably sticky behind her knees. Kreacher would get rid of the dress if she asked him to. Mother would just buy her a new one.

"Nothing," came the monotone reply, stick shifting away the fur to reveal the gooey mess inside. The witch wasn't quite familiar with the insides of animals. Yet. "Go back inside, Cissy."

"Did you do this?" Her petite nose was curled up in distaste, and a sudden rage blew up in Bellatrix's chest, red hot and pulsing beneath her skin. She would never point her wand at her sister, her Cissy, the beautiful girl she loved so dearly, but at that moment she wanted to.

"It bit me," she snapped. "I refuse to keep a familiar that won't obey me. It bit me and it needed to be punished." It was a flat out lie but a necessary one—easily told and easily believed.

Narcissa gave a sniff. "Good riddance then." She rose back to her feet, brushing off imaginary dirt. The girl never looked less than pristine. Bellatrix didn't bothering comparing herself to her younger sibling, considering she had sliced open a cat from chin to anus while Narcissa had just returned from her piano lessons. They were simply different people, and Bellatrix mused that her task had been much more fun than banging on ivory keys. "We don't need a cat like that in the house."

"No," Bellatrix agreed, resuming her poking more aggressively, chest swelling with pleasure at the indirect praise. "We don't."

She had been proud in that moment. The praise of her family was like a hand trailing down her spine, pleasurable shivers and the knowledge that she was _right_.

She had felt it when the Sorting Hat had shuddered on her head and quickly proclaimed her the newest Slytherin.

It had filled her lungs as she'd pushed a Mudblood Gryffindor into the lake and gotten away with it.

Bellatrix had felt it as she had gotten the Dark Mark tattooed into her skin, the wriggling snake and empty-eyed skull at home on her body.

She had felt it as the Longbottoms _screamed_ , with Rodolphus, Rabastan, and Barty Crouch Jr. cheering her on.

And she was overwhelmed with pride as she became a queen in iron, chained and surrounded by Aurors, loyal to the Dark Lord 'til the end as she was sentenced and locked away for life.

But she was with allies, and she knew her imprisonment wouldn't be forever.

The dementors didn't frighten her—she knew their allegiance with her master, so she adored them with a vacant sort of attention, like a guest with a cat allergy brushing away a feline with a polite smile so as not to offend their host. The memories their presence brought were meant to terrorize her, make her lose whatever marbles she had left bouncing about in her skull. But there wasn't a single memory in her head that she wasn't proud of, cooing to herself, surrounded by darkness and the rank scent of fear as she remembered the screams.

She loved the screams—relished in the knowledge that she made throats go raw, made eyes bulge in fear and helped to spread the Dark Lord's reign across Europe.

The cat hadn't screamed, she recalled vacantly, picking at the callouses on her feet, caused by continuous pacing on cold stone. Narcissa hadn't screamed either. She had cooly summoned Kreacher to take the body away and gave a chilling rendition to Druella Black about how the feline had gone insane. The maid that had been sent to select the cat had been punished for selecting 'a defective product'—words that made Bellatrix giggle—and had been let go. Narcissa had smiled, pleased at the results she had manipulated, easily interjecting that Bellatrix needed a new dress as well.

It was black with silver and green, and she wore it to Narcissa's birthday party, where the younger Black received a handsome barn owl and reassurance that Mother had picked it herself. Bellatrix never got another familiar. It was probably for the best—though it was tempting.

The witch tugged absently on her curls, head lolling back to stare at the ceiling. A dementor hovered there, casual in its haunting, the black tendrils of its robe constantly shifting as if it were alive. Bellatrix gave it a yellowed smile and purred.

"The cat didn't scream," she cooed, "but the Longbottoms did. All the humans scream because humans are _weak_." She stood and stretched out her fingers. Boney and covered in skin stretched too thin—their hands matched. "You're an animal. I'm an animal. Cissy is an animal too, but she's a different _breed_ from you and I."

The dementor didn't answer. He never did, but Bellatrix didn't mind. She didn't need anyone to answer her rambling rants. She was content to talk to the figures on the wall, the shadows and tendrils of darkness that kissed her skin.

She saw Narcissa sometimes. Her pin straight hair, black as a raven's wing, eyes cold as she held up a moving picture. "Did you do this?" she asked, nose curled in distaste. Bellatrix could smell the rot in the air and the heavy scent of blood. She cackled, rolling across the floor in glee.

"I did it, Cissy!" Her hands wrapped around the iron bars of her cell as she crooned into her sister's face, breath as rancid as the stench of the body. She didn't recognize it. The face was disfigured, swollen and bulbous, and as crazed eyes made a half-hearted attempt at connecting the dots the figure became furry and meowed pitifully, a younger Bellatrix pulling the skin back with bloody hands. "It was me, it was me, all me," she repeated with breathless abandon.

Her hands reached up to pet the smooth cheeks, smiling and nodding. "But it's for us, Cissy, for the family and for our Lord. It's for us, and it's so much _fun!_ " Her fingernails suddenly turned into claws, digging into the pale flesh as she screamed, " _It needed to be punished! It bit me! They deserved it, every last one!_ "

She drew blood, but Narcissa never looked less than perfect, even with gnarly scratches drawn down her face. The girl's features shifted, haughty and full of contempt. "Good riddance, then," she sniffed. "We don't need trash like that in our world."

And suddenly Bellatrix calmed, soothed by the familiar tingle of pride slithering down her back, her sister's loving acceptance enough to soothe the ache her loneliness created. Something ingrained in her mind, far, far deeper than her insanity, was something else: entitlement and solidarity between she and her sister.

She stood in the beam of Narcissa's agreement, basking in the warmth that would always be there. The dementor above her watched and Bellatrix couldn't help but give an ugly smile at it. This heat, this love, her sister—they could never be taken away from her. _Ever._

Bellatrix put her hands through the bars, petting her sister's face where she had only moments before scratched. The ill-fated cat had never received such attention. Where Narcissa was worshipped the feline had been abused. Cooing as one would to sooth something small and frightened, Bellatrix whispered, "You and me, Cissy. I'm going to rid us of all the trash. For us! For the Dark Lord. The animals deserve it! They deserve to die, yes? They deserve _everything_ we do to them."

Even with rivulets of blood running down her pale cheeks, Narcissa was perfect—a perfect, blood-covered sister, a different breed of animal. That was okay. Bellatrix would take care of it. She would take care of everything, and she would be _proud_.

Narcissa's voice was cold, and Bellatrix reveled in its wonderful murderous tone. "There is no place for such filth in our world. There is no place for _defective products_."

Bellatrix smiled broadly, pulling back her hands to lick the blood off, pink tongue darting between the digits. "No," she agreed. Her cheeks ached from the gnarled scratches she had inflicted upon herself. "No, we don't."


	3. Chapter 3

heyo spaghettios!

have another competition thingy mabob! I had a lot of fun with this one, I think it's funny/good, so yeah. enjoy!

on a side note, to my regular readers waiting for me to update ode - I will get to it soon I promise :c I've barely been able to get these suckers out. Just ask my team haha

QLFC Season III: Finals! Round 2

 _chosen cliché:_ Dark!Harry

 _prompts are:_ unusual, slytherin common room (setting), blanket

 _(worst) summary (ever):_ Fiction has its hold on them all, and once a month they succumb to the script. When Dark!Harry makes an appearance, it takes the one who can see what others can't to bring him back to himself.

 _pairing:_ little bit of Harry/Luna and mentions of others

* * *

It was raining, which wasn't all that abnormal; however, it was raining in the middle of the library, which made it far less understandable.

Well, less understandable for most.

Luna turned another page of her _Quibbler_ , chewing absentmindedly on a candy quill. She was due for two more comments on her bright yellow raincoat and had figured that she could avoid any scathing remarks in the safety of the library. It was vacant on most days, considering the time of month (it was never the location of the more dramatic stories, which Luna knew Hermione was secretly rather upset about), and despite the rain pouring down upon her, it was quite pleasant to get away from the chaos swarming the castle.

However, as Luna liked to fondly think, trouble had a way of finding people. And indeed, trouble found her in the form of a panicked Hermione Granger, who was followed by, and this was unusual (though not for this time of the month), Draco Malfoy.

"Finally!" Hermione exclaimed, slamming her hands on the table. Wet copies of _The Dragons In My Backyard_ and _Rebellious Earth: The Planet That Circled the Sun_ jumped in fright. The former let out an offended belch of smoke. An abandoned copy of _Witch Weekly_ slid to the floor with a smack. Luna eyed it warily—that could be dangerous. "We've been looking for you _everywhere_ , Luna!"

"Hello, Hermione," she said sweetly. "Hello, Draco."

The boy sneered and turned away—or turned away as much as he could with steel handcuffs connecting his wrist to Hermione's. The witch turned, scowling at the stress the movement put on her wrist, and tugged hard on the cuffs, pulling the Slytherin boy forward until he slipped on the soggy _Witch Weekly_. He went down with a series of curses.

 _I knew it_ , Luna thought.

Hermione simply cackled.

"Granger!" Draco growled.

"Malfoy!" Hermione mocked.

"Can I help you?" Luna asked cheerfully.

Hermione whirled around and slammed her hands against the table once more. _Auras and Those Gross Things Called Feelings_ whined. Luna patted the cover soothingly. It was really such a sensitive book, and so misunderstood.

"Harry's a Dark Lord again!" Hermione shouted. Madame Pince, whose polka dot umbrella levitated over her head to protect her wonderfully feathered hat, shot a glare in their direction. Hermione winced, and Luna waved. "Harry thinks he's a Dark Lord again," she amended in a whisper.

Madame Pince nodded in approval and returned to her book. She had finally finished _The Bone Wizard_ and was in the midst of the erotic sequel, _The Sorceress of the Bone_.

"Really?" Normally, Harry was involved in strange romances with 90% of the school while simultaneously time-traveling to become best friends with one Tom Riddle. She'd met him once—apparently their love had grown so strong that Tom had time travelled to the future to be with Harry. He'd vanished after a couple of minutes though. The current Tom Riddle was the jealous type, it seemed.

Every once in awhile though, Harry became Dark!Harry—or so Luna called it. It was one of Luna's favorite classifications. Everyone ran around in a panic trying to keep the boy inside the castle, since he had apparently figured out how to Apparate outside the wards and to the Dursleys, where he normally tortured them into insanity. He once fought Dumbledore to get the Elder Wand before casually claiming he was so powerful he didn't need it, and tossed it into an ocean trench.

No one really worried about it, though. St. Mungo's normally had the Dursleys sorted out after a couple of months, and Harry did feel rather dreadful about it afterwards. Dumbledore had been rather nice about the wand thing, though he had made Harry go with him to get it back. Apparently they had fought sea serpents, which Luna wished she could have seen. It would have been a fantastic article in the _Quibbler_.

Draco carefully stood, glaring stoically at the linoleum as if it had personally offended him. "He's a Slytherin again," he muttered gravely.

Luna thought he was pouting.

"Please, Luna," Hermione begged. "We can't get him back to himself."

"Because of the handcuffs?" Luna leaned back slightly to examine their wrists. "They came off, by the way. If they don't vanish, can I have them?"

The pair froze before glancing at their freed wrists and the pile of metal glinting dully on the floor. Draco threw his hands up with a shout of victory while Hermione carefully rubbed the red skin on her wrist—their story was, evidently, over. However, it took only a moment for the next story to unfold, and Draco was suddenly quite a bit more attractive than he usually was.

"Uh," Hermione started, visibly struggling with herself. Luna figured that a wolf whistle would be inappropriate, so she kept her mouth shut, bending to pick up the discarded handcuffs.

The boy's brows furrowed. "What?" he started. His hands started to dart up and down his body, patting as if searching for an injury. "What is it now?"

Luna tucked her _Quibbler_ into her robes. "I think you're half Veela again," she mused thoughtfully. That had happened quite a few times before. Usually, it resulted in a few injuries due to stampedes and Harry buying a multitude of pregnancy tests. Luna never bothered to ask who they were for. As if on cue, the library doors slammed open and there stood a mob—Pansy Parkinson, predictably, at the front of the pack.

"Oh, _Draco_!" she sang.

He stared at the mob for a moment. "Bloody hell!" he cursed, before turning on his heel and sprinting off into the bookcases, slipping and sliding on the wet tile like a baby deer. The mob quickly followed behind in typical mob fashion, leaving the two girls to stare in amusement.

Luna turned to Hermione with a smile. "Shall we go get Harry, then?" She rose and started off towards the entrance, peeling off her raincoat and discarding it once free of the downpour. Hermione followed along in a daze.

The hallways were empty, the majority of the student population most likely chasing after their newest Veela resident. They headed down the stairs towards the dungeons in amicable silence, only interrupted when a hiss echoed on the stone.

"Oh my," Luna quipped.

Hermione cursed.

"Miss Granger."

She cursed again.

Luna smiled. "Hello, Professor. How are you today?"

Severus Snape peered down his nose at the pair, glancing at Luna with disdain before focusing on Hermione. "Miss Granger, I believe we need to… _discuss_ … your most recent paper." His brow rose meaningfully, and Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Oh dear," Luna whispered dramatically. She really did love this time of the month—so much drama.

Hermione shoved her elbow into Luna's side, making the blond yelp, and smiled. "Yes, Professor. Just one minute, please."

He continued to stare for a moment longer before turning with a sweep of his robes and vanishing into the darkness. Hermione pulled her fingers through her hair and groaned.

Luna patted her shoulder. "There, there," she said. "It could be worse. It could be Professor Flitwick." The blonde gasped and glanced up at the ceiling. "Are there any stories with Flitwick? Poor man."

Hermione looked rather sick. Luna was rather thankful she was a minor character.

"Look," Hermione started, her feet already dragging her unwillingly after the professor. "I'm going to be gone in a minute—you have to go get Harry. He's in the Slytherin common room; please talk him down before he starts a killing spree!"

Almost as soon as she finished, her eyes glazed over, the story taking hold. She smiled at Luna before turning on her heel and prancing after Snape. Luna waved before continuing down the steps.

She had been to the Slytherin common room a few times before, mostly to help out with whatever variation of Harry the stories had brought forth. Blaise Zabini, who stood just beside the entrance, sighed in relief when she came into view.

"You have _got_ to get him out of here," he seethed, pausing in his rant to growl out the password. "He's causing all sorts of chaos! And he's not even a real Slytherin!"

She patted the boy's shoulder as the stone door swung open, and carefully stepped inside. She didn't see anyone at first in the dark green gloom—but then she saw the prominent figure seated in the plush armchair before the fire and the silhouettes of the cowering Slytherins hiding behind chairs and pillars. Luna wagged her fingers at them in greeting before skipping towards the ominous shadow. She stood on her tiptoes to peer over the back of the chair, and grinned.

"What are you doing, Harry?"

Green eyes flickered up. "Luna."

She twirled around to take a seat on the arm of the chair, and smiled at the snakes he had wrapped about his wrist and throat. They tended to find him when he went dark.

 _It's quite cute, actually,_ she thought. She peered a little closer at the creatures before averting her eyes, recognizing the ridges on the back of the skull.

"You've got Basilisk familiars again." She tilted her head to the side. "They have purple scales this time. Last time they had wings. Hopefully you won't turn into a giant King of the Basilisks and petrify half the school again. That was such a mess to clean up."

Harry just stared at her, a flash of confusion flooding his features before morphing back into cool indifference. The confusion was a good sign; it meant his story would soon be over, and they would have their bumbling dolt of a Chosen One back in no time at all.

He stared into the flames of the fire as though it held all the answers to the universe—Luna thought he was pouting. Dark!Harry was a rather prolific pouter.

"How are you?"

"Fine." His tone was brisk and dismissive. The cowering Slytherins cringed.

Luna glanced about the room and noted the giant squid peering in from the windows. Luna grinned, and it waved a tentacle before moving on. Harry was, unsurprisingly, still pouting.

Luna rested her forehead against Harry's. "Are you upset because you haven't tortured your relatives yet?"

The boy shifted. "No," he mumbled.

"Have you dueled Dumbledore yet?"

His response was a nearly silent, "No."

"Have you gathered a ring of loyal followers?"

Harry waved a hand in the general direction of the other teens, a few of whom proceeded to flee towards the door. He watched them go with burning eyes before huffing loudly. Luna translated it to something along the lines of 'who needs them anyway'.

Luna tsked. "What terrible followers."

He raised an eyebrow in a way she translated as 'tell me about it'.

Luna rose to her feet and took hold of his hand. "Let's go to the Great Hall," she suggested. "We can get some food, and you can loudly proclaim you are the new Dark Lord and challenge Dumbledore to a duel. That'll cheer you up. Are you telepathic this time around?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "I don't need telepathy to know what this lot is thinking," he sneered, jutting his jaw towards the shivering first year Slytherins who hadn't yet managed to escape. They quivered at the attention, but Luna saved the day with a bright smile and another tug. He followed, albeit reluctantly, the basilisks hissing woefully when he detached them and left them on the chair.

It was only once they had left the common room and were walking down the hall that Harry started to come back to himself, frowning at the green and silver of his tie and the chill of the dungeon. Luna intertwined their fingers and continued to walk, humming a tune that matched the beat of her butterbeer bottle cap necklace as it bounced against her chest. She had to stop, however, when Harry shook and slid to the floor with large, heaving gasps.

She summoned a blanket—an old, misshapen thing her mother had knitted for her when she was just a babe, and wrapped it around his shoulders, rubbing careful circles against his arms. It took a few minutes of whispered nothings for him to finally calm down. She always disliked this part—seeing the pain and realization that he hadn't been himself, and that he had most likely done something horrible.

"Luna?" he gasped, green eyes watering as he glanced up at her.

She gave him a smile and pulled him to his feet. "Come along, Harry. Let's get some food in you."

She put an arm around him and carefully led him to the Great Hall. It was rather vacant, given the time of month, but given the time of day it was slightly unsettling. There were a few students milling about, jumping and cringing as if expecting a story to sneak up behind them and yell 'Gotcha!' before yanking them down into the embarrassing depths of imagination.

A plate appeared before them both as they took their seats, and Harry immediately grabbed the pumpkin juice, draining half of the goblet before he paused to take a breath.

"This is exhausting," he moaned as the goblet was replaced with a chunk of roast. He gnawed on the meat before shoving in a spoonful of mashed potatoes. "I don't know if I can take another month of this. It's not as if I have anything else to worry about, y'know, like a Dark Lord or exams. Merlin knows if I'll graduate at this rate."

Luna smiled serenely, her face tranquil. "It's alright, Harry. It'll be over soon—the week is almost through."

The boy glared hard at the broccoli on his plate, and for a moment Luna wondered if he had developed the ability to light things on fire with his mind. Alas, the greens remained unharmed (Luna could admit to being slightly disappointed) and Harry took another swig of his juice.

"Just enough time for another story," he drawled sarcastically, expression sour.

The other students didn't quite believe Luna when she'd told them that all of this was caused by Muggle imaginations, forcing them to reenact various clichéd stories one week of each month. Harry, however, had been more accepting of the seemingly insane theory.

Perhaps that's why she loved him the most.

Her smile vanished for just a moment as she glanced up at the enchanted ceiling in thought. "True," she admitted. "You are quite a popular character."

Harry groaned.

"If it makes you feel any better, Draco is part Veela again. Half the school is currently chasing him down and stealing his clothes." She adjusted the blanket around his shoulders, letting her fingers graze the back of his neck as she did so. He relaxed slightly under the touch and reluctantly chewed on another piece of roast. "And besides, You-Know-Who's due for an illicit love affair with a Muggle who just discovered she was a rare elemental witch who will change him into a paragon of virtue."

Harry gagged and pushed his plate away. "At least it's not me this time," was the muttered response. "How's Hermione?"

Luna stole a little bit of mashed potato from the discarded plate. "Hermione is off with Professor Snape again," she hummed, licking her finger. The house elves had really outdone themselves.

Harry made a face. "And Ron?"

"Oh, I haven't seen him." Luna took another bite of potato. "He's probably off with Neville attempting to escape."

He paused before turning on the bench so he faced her. "And... me? What did I do this time?" He was already cringing, preparing for the worst.

Luna couldn't keep her smile off her face. "Nothing!"

He blinked. "Nothing?"

She nodded, deciding that she really did want those potatoes and, as if on command, a spoon appeared before her. "Nothing," she replied cheerfully. "You spent most of your time in the Slytherin common room attempting to gather followers for your righteous reign of terror, but I guess nobody wanted to join you after what happened last time." Harry watched with growing disbelief as she continued to eat. "You just scared them a bit, is all."

"Nobody died?"

"Nope!" Luna gave him a bright smile, radish earrings swinging as she tilted her head. "You were rather upset about it, actually. It was rather cute."

There was dead silence, and suddenly Harry's turned a floral crimson, eyes darting down to stare at the wood of the bench. "C-cute?"

Luna tilted her head the other way before focusing back onto Harry's abandoned plate, utilizing newly appeared cutlery to cut at the roast. "Yes. But you're always rather handsome, Harry."

There was more silence, and just as she swallowed a mouthful of meat, warm and slightly chapped lips landed on her cheek and remained there for a shocking two seconds before retreating. It took her a moment to register that it had in fact been Harry who had kissed her, and she turned her head to stare at the blushing boy with wide eyes.

"What was that for?" she asked.

Harry's jaw dropped, and for a moment he stuttered, fingers clutching the fabric of her blanket before he suddenly blurted, "Story!"

Luna blinked.

"It's—ah—a, um, story—" Harry scrambled up and away from the table, tripping over his own robes. "Bloody hell—I—" He caught his balance, and rubbed his already disheveled hair furiously before turning and racing from the Great Hall, her blanket still wrapped around his shoulders.

Luna's hand rose to her cheek. She could still feel his lips pressed there. "A story." She turned back to her plate, staring at the green vegetables. "A story," she repeated absently. A large smile stole over her features and it was with a giddy energy that she buried her pink face into her hands.

Though many of the conventions were more than laughable, Luna had to admit that there was something to be said for certain Muggle imaginations.


	4. Chapter 4

heyo.

have another competition thing that fucking murdered me because its finals and why on earth was round three during finals week? ;-; -cries-

 **QLFC Season III: Finals! Round 3**

 _team character:_ Argus Filch

 _chaser two prompt:_ write about your member of staff's first day on the job

 _prompts are:_ ache, pretend, omen

 _summary:_ It's his first day on the job. He gives the Headmaster a detention, Peeves is _terrible_ , he meets Sirius Black and James Potter, and Mrs Norris is allergic to children. All in all, a horrible first day.

 _pairing:_ none

* * *

The first day of his job wasn't actually during the day. In fact, it began at approximately at 6:00 p.m. on the first day of September. Argus Filch and his beloved cat, Mrs Norris, had already been at the castle for about a day, exploring the nooks and crannies of the enormous magical castle with what some of the other staff and faculty members might have described as a delighted smile. Such a smile would never be seen again, though a student would claim years later to have once seen something resembling a grin as he brushed his cat's fur in his office.

Said student, predictably, would receive a detention for 'meandering through the halls with suspicious intent'.

There were many presumptions among the staff in the following years as to what exactly could have changed Argus Filch to the grouchy, temperamental, vindictive caretaker that slouched along the corridors, detentions flying from his lips before most people could even figure out that they had done anything wrong—or rather, come to the realization that they, in fact, had not done anything wrong in the first place. That wasn't to say he had been very different before taking a job at Hogwarts. Argus Filch had always had a knack for rubbing people the wrong way and, in turn, he tended to despise anyone who wasn't his cat, the animal who seemed to be the only living thing that could tolerate him and love him.

(Though some people even dared to wonder if there were ever days when Mrs Norris didn't care for him either. Said people never voiced such a thought within hearing distance of the feline.)

The general consensus, however, when the reason for Argus Filch's generally unpleasant demeanor came up in conversation, was that the blame fell squarely upon his first 'real' day as caretaker at Hogwarts school, which was really just a terrible, horrible, no-good, very _bad_ day.

And, as many days did, it began with Albus Dumbledore.

Hours had been spent in vindictive preparation to launch his assault on the young children of Hogwarts. Argus knew he had to lay down the law. He had to let them know he wouldn't be pushed around, nor would he be lenient. He was the alpha, the top dog, and he would make sure that every student knew it.

The man scowled into his mirror, attempting to find the best angle as he looked down his nose, lips curled. Mrs Norris observed from her perch on the bookshelf.

"Detention!" he suddenly hollered, pointing a finger. He paused. "Why?" he asked. Argus leaned forward until the tip of his nose bumped the mirror. "Because I said so!" He narrowed his eyes and after a moment of intense staring he pulled away.

"What do you think?" he asked the feline.

She meowed.

"Thank you."

He adjusted his coat and pulled at the small tie, gave himself another nasty look in the mirror, before heading out the door, Mrs Norris following along.

Here is where the terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day began, as the caretaking pair stalked down the hallway and encountered a rather strangely dressed student chatting amicably with a portrait. And it was so that after hours of practice giving detentions for every reason he was allowed to make a detention for, Argus' gut reaction at seeing a student caused him to bellow out, "Detention!"

The student began to turn, but Argus was on a roll. "Dress code violation! Detention!" Mrs Norris gave a meow. "D—"

Albus Dumbledore, casually dressed in a shimmering bright green robe decorated in enchanted blue stars, and most definitely _not_ a student, gave a smile. "Argus, good evening."

Argus' jaw dropped. Mrs Norris scampered behind the nearest suit of armor. He spared a moment to think, _traitor,_ before he began to stutter and mumble something resembling apologies. The Headmaster took it in stride, adjusting his half-moon spectacles and stroking his beard.

"Ah, I shall arrive at your office promptly tonight after the feast to receive my detention." He winked, and Argus suddenly felt the world shift, as though a dark curse had been cast upon him—an omen foretelling that this day would be the beginning of many, many long days. And he had the odd sense of foreboding that none of them would be good.

Albus gestured towards the Great Hall, as ethereal as ever. "Shall we? The students will be arriving within the hour." He started walking, and upon seeing the elderly man retreat, Mrs Norris returned and leaped upon Argus' shoulder and gave a lick to his cheek. Argus scowled, and if any of the staff might have asked him why he was stomping like a child, an answer would never be given.

There were no more incidents until Albus, against Argus' will, introduced him to the students.

"Let's welcome our new caretaker, Argus Filch. Everyone, please treat him kindly." He smiled and gestured towards the man, who had until then been quietly hiding in a corner and glaring at anyone who made eye contact with him.

Upon the Headmaster's words, every living (and unliving) thing in the hall turned to look at him. He braced himself and gave the biggest scowl he could, almost a snarl, baring his teeth until his cheeks began to ache. Mrs Norris completed the image with a fierce glare of her own.

It was in that moment that the biggest war known to man began.

Because Peeves the poltergeist, the bane of every Hogwarts caretaker in existence, launched the first assault by grabbing Mrs Norris by the tail and throwing her up into the enchanted ceiling, cackling all the way. The resulting caterwauls were practically deafening, and the tough persona of Argus Filch melted away as he let out a yelp, racing from his corner to zig back and forth around the room in an attempt to catch the screaming feline. Despite later theories of kneazle heritage, Mrs Norris was only a cat—an unpleasantly intelligent one to be sure, but a cat nonetheless. And, as only a cat could do, she managed to catch herself on one of the invisible beams supporting the ceiling and latched on.

"Mrs Norris!" Argus cried.

"Ah," Albus smiled. "Argus, allow me to introduce you to Peeves, the castle's poltergeist."

Mrs Norris yowled louder.

Peeves, flying through the air, turned upside down and blew a raspberry. "Silly Filchies! Stupid kitties!" he sang.

It took a four minute monologue, three spells, a bottle of firewhiskey, and a shoe to get Peeves out of the Great Hall, and even then Filch had to wait until all of the students had finished their meals and left for their rooms to go and retrieve Mrs Norris. Professor Flitwick, a very small man with a very squeaky voice, had been kind enough to charm a ladder to extend to such a height, though the journey up was perilous. Mrs Norris was furious, and so was Argus. It was there in the Great Hall that he vowed vengeance, a solemn promise to rid Hogwarts of Peeves the poltergeist once and for all.

He would continue to fail for over 25 years.

However, that same night, another war would begin. It wasn't nearly as epic, nor as one-sided, but it was a grudge that would transcend time and space, lasting generations. And such a grudge began with two young students just beginning their third year of schooling.

Their names were James Potter and Sirius Black.

It was approximately 11:31 p.m., almost 29 minutes until the official end of Argus Filch's first day, and he was walking through the halls in search of troublemakers. Albus had assured him that the first night would be slow. The children would be fat and happy and not very inclined to disobey any rules. But still the caretaker prowled, nursing the wounds he had gained over the course of the night and just begging for an excuse to punish someone. Mrs Norris' tail was still fluffed to twice its normal size and she had sunk her claws into Argus' shoulder so she would not be so easily taken again.

Most of the paintings were asleep, and those that weren't averted their eyes when the pair passed. Argus gave them his best glare, but it was when one particular lady gave an outright laugh that he stopped.

He stared.

She quieted.

Argus took the frame and flipped it upside down. The woman began to shriek, but was silenced as he rehung the painting backwards. He turned to glare at the next painting and the man quickly hid out of sight. The next morning, when he would be asked about what had happened to his neighbor, he'd wisely say nothing.

It was luck and quiet whispers that stole the caretaker's attention away from doling out more punishments to the nosy paintings.

Perhaps, had Argus simply continued on his way without looking for trouble, even if it was on the administrative side, he would not have had the experience that cemented his overwhelming hatred for the student body of Hogwarts. If he had just been able to pretend that he had heard nothing and returned to his office where a nice bit of firewhisky waited to warm his belly, he could have overcome the damage done to his pride. Whether it was fate or his karma that caused his burning hostility to the student body remained a mystery even decades after his being hired.

"We have to find Remus," one voice whispered.

"I know, I know!" another voice complained. "I swear he said he wasn't feeling well so he had to go to the infirmary."

"But, he wasn't there, James," the other voice groused.

"Don't you think I noticed?" the other boy hissed.

"Come on, mate," the other boy's voice placated. The voices faded into more hushed whispers and Argus shared a glance with Mrs Norris before creeping forward. "Besides," the same voice sighed, "he's too tightly laced for that. We'll have to work on him, and I have all the stuff anyway."

"Stuff? What did you bring, Sirius?"

"Stuff, James" the other boy replied, "from home."

"Come on, let me see!" James protested.

"No!" Sirius hissed. "Come on, we have to go!"

"Just let me see it!" James insisted.

"No, damnit!" Sirius huffed. "Let's go before—"

"Well, well, well," Argus said with a sneer, slipping out of the shadows with a practiced slouch. Mrs Norris let out a low meow. "Out after curfew, hmm? Carrying suspicious contraband, hmm? I'll have you facing a nice detention soon enough." His sneer turned into a downright sinister grin. He was feeling better already. "Turn out your pockets."

"But, sir—"

"Turn them out!" Argus demanded.

The two boys looked at him and sighed, hands digging into their robes.

Most of it, Argus lamented, was normal stuff for thirteen year olds. Twine, candy, and chocolate frog cards with various wizards and witches on them. One thing that stood out as suspicious, however, was a small rodent. It was remarkably lifelike save for the tiny windup key on the back.

"Oh, and what is this?" Argus admonished, reaching for the mouse.

The boy with the longer black hair jerked his hand back. "Please, sir, don't touch it," Sirius pleaded. "It's a family heirloom! A Black family heirloom!"

"Then you'll get to explain to your parents why their heirloom is in my cabinet, then," the caretaker replied gleefully. Not only would he be punished by Argus, but his family as well. Twice the discipline! Tucking Mrs Norris under his arm, he reached out to touch the mouse.

 _Fwoosh!_

Argus disappeared.

"Shit!" Sirius exclaimed, racing to stuff his pockets with the cast out items.

"What the bloody hell was that?" James shrieked, stuffing his pockets at the same time.

"Black family heirlooms are all protected in some way to keep them from being stolen. If you aren't blood related, they'll do something to you!"

"What the hell does that one do?" James hissed.

Sirius looked distressed. "I… I don't know."

James' eyes bugged out of his head. "You brought some cursed rat to school and you didn't know what it did?!"

"I wanted to find out!"

At that moment, the Headmaster stepped out of the shadows with a steaming mug of cocoa. "Ah," he started. The boys froze - perhaps the man's eyesight was based on movement. Alas, Albus continued after a content sigh. "What could possibly be so interesting that you would be spending your first night in the hallways instead of socialising with your new housemates, hm?"

With quick glances at each other, they straightened and pointed. "He did it!" they both exclaimed.

The Headmaster had trudged out into the dark with a handful of faculty to search the grounds for Argus. They found him on the shore of the Great Lake, covered in seaweed with a starfish casually acting as an eyepatch and an octopus who seemed quite content to cut off the circulation to his left foot. Mrs Norris had to be rescued from a boulder quite a distance away from shore, her pathetic, if not loud, meows the only way they noticed that she was even there. The mouse was taken and tucked away in a drawer labeled ' _Confiscated and Highly Dangerous'_ while Sirius Black and James Potter were given two weeks' worth of detention.

It was from that point on, ego bruised from the humiliation, that Argus Filch swore vengeance upon the likes of James Potter and Sirius Black. No student was spared from his wrath, but that wrath in question would come in the following weeks and years. For days after his rescue, Argus Filch kept to himself and skulked about, recovering from a terrible first day on the job. It was the only mercy he would give them before becoming the cantankerous and cranky old man most people would come to know him as.

It was as Argus nursed his wounded pride, cuddling Mrs Norris to him and patrolling in one of the hallway corridors, that he made a horrible discovery. Every time one of the students passed him in the halls, Mrs Norris would sneeze.

His cat was allergic to children, and he was surrounded by them.


	5. Chapter 5

oh my god

this thing was a fucking horror to publish I swear to all my various gods it was awful i'm going to go cry in a corner. it keeps saying I have like another couple hundred more words than I actually have and no matter what I do fanfic keeps _lying to me_. Ugh. But srsly my fic is like 2950 words and fanfic is a liar.

My original authors note was nice and touching over how much fun this competition was but i've just been traumatized by how awful posting this chapter was haha sweet jesus

but srsly this competition was a lot of fun c: hope ya'll like the fic

EDIT: btw apparently it's now 13,000K hahaha just kill me

 **QLFC Season III: Finals Finals!**

 _pairing request:_ wolfstar aka Remus/Sirius

 _prompts are:_ iridescent, the quote "You have no idea how easy it is to fall back into the darkness", and the song 'Hey, Brother' by Avicii

 _summary:_ Sirius is gone. And Remus is fine.

 _pairing:_ wolfstar aka Remus/Sirius

* * *

He had first realized that he loved Sirius Black the night Sirius had given him that wicked grin and shifted into a shaggy black dog.

He had realized it again when Sirius Black had stolen a swig of his butterbeer, and he had wondered if it counted as a kiss.

Still, he had only truly accepted it after Sirius Black had been imprisoned for the murder of fifteen people.

In the end, he only realized that his love was eternal after Sirius Black was already dead.

* * *

The nameplate mocks him. The curves of the letters that make his name are sharper than the edge of a blade. His fingers have memorized the grooves, but they trace them over and over again, as if they would give him courage.

They don't.

The door swings open with a squeal, and Remus cringes as the sound rakes against his ears. The room is exactly how Sirius left it—a mess. Clothes are tangled on the floor along with books and dust. The bed is unmade, and pillows are haphazardly thrown about as if the last night he'd slept there he had awoken in a panic. Red and gold Gryffindor banners hang from the ceiling beside the chandelier, colors faded from passage of years. The wallpaper is nearly invisible behind the posters of motorcycles, bikini-clad women, and moving snapshots of the Marauders along with whatever else caught his fancy. All are still attached to the wall with Permanent Sticking Charms, just as teenage Sirius had spitefully left them.

"They'll never get 'em off," he'd cackled gleefully, cheeks red from laughter and the cold, with flakes of snow trapped in his hair. His eyes had been like molten silver. "They've been pissing about it for a week."

Remus shakes the voice out of his head and steps inside, fingers dragging against the door frame.

Sirius is gone.

Remus is _fine_.

He tiptoes around a sweater he tries hard not to recognize and smiles at the photographs waving from the nightstand. James winks from his place in Lily's arms. Remus grins beside them. Sirius is making a face of disgust as Lily places a kiss on James' cheek. Remus reaches for the photograph—when his foot suddenly falls through the floor. Splintered wood digs into his ankle and he hisses with pain as he carefully extracts it from the floorboard. The house is old, that's for sure, but he didn't expect the floor to give out beneath him.

Then, he sees a glint of light from the break in the floor.

Remus is careful as he investigates. It wouldn't do to blunder into one of Sirius' particularly awful curses. His fingers brush stone and to his surprise he pulls out a tiny pensieve.

Sirius had shrunk it to fit beneath the floorboards, but the runes and iridescent glow of the silver substance is unmistakable.

 _Why would Sirius have a pensieve?_ he wonders, tugging his wand from his pocket to unshrink it and lay it carefully on the floor. He waves his wand a couple times, testing for anything unseemly Sirius may have done to keep others from prying into his thoughts. Nothing happens and he tucks it away.

 _I shouldn't,_ he thinks, fingers shaking as he grips the rim. The pensieve glitters invitingly. _I can't._

Yet he wants to see Sirius again, he _craves_ it, feels the need pumping through his veins and he dives down into a sea of darkness without hesitation.

For a moment, it's frightening, but then sparks of light fly by like fireflies and glimpses of faces come into being. _His_ face.

Remus, smiling.

Remus, half-transformed and stumbling.

Remus, choking on a cup of pumpkin juice.

Remus, laughing.

Remus, Remus, _Remus_.

The pensieve is warm and light, filling his body with a gentle glow and it's as if Sirius is there, as he used to be, before Azkaban and death had tainted him. When Sirius was still full of hope and joy. Remus closes his eyes and basks in a feeling that he hasn't felt since he was in school.

"Hey! Hey, Remus!"

The scene takes shape. In it, he's much younger. Remus isn't entirely sure what year it is, but he's seated in the DADA room, and James Potter is whispering in his ear. Sirius Black is there, the long strands of his hair pushed behind his ears, staring with narrowed grey eyes. His fingers tap a regular rhythm, and he glances at the vacant teacher's desk before pushing back in his chair and squeezing himself between the two friends.

"Hey, brother," he greets James, and then he turns to Remus.

Suddenly it's warm, everything is gold, and when Sirius says, "Moony, darling," with a twist of his lip, Remus melts, and all at once he remembers the day with perfect clarity. It had been in sixth year, just after the start of school, and he remembers because—

Sirius pushes his way further between the pair, who glance at each other in exasperation—though Remus has a healthy dash of rose to his cheeks. It turns crimson when Sirius rests his head on his shoulder, hair brushing Remus' neck and everything smells like—

 _It smells wrong,_ Remus thinks.

Sirius once smelled like leather, mint from his toothpaste, and something wild—something Remus can only ever find sprinting through woods in the dark. In later years, he smelled like oil from his motorbike, and, after Azkaban, he simply smelled… _sad_.

But that isn't what Remus smells in this memory. It's parchment, the woods, and something quiet. It smells—almost like lavender, but not—calming, sweet, and infinitely alluring. He tastes it on his tongue and rolls it around his teeth, trying to figure out where the smell is coming from.

It takes him a minute to remember that it's a memory, and by the time he realizes that _this_ is how _he_ must smell to _Sirius_ , it fades, and a new memory takes its place.

 _Christmas,_ he thinks as a younger version of himself drags a sleepy-eyed Sirius into the common room, the fir-tree standing proud in all its splendor with presents scattered beneath. He's paying attention now, noting that despite the early hour and his grumpy expression, Sirius is delighted, and he's holding Remus' hand like he never wants to let go.

Remus watches the memory with a sinking feeling, keeping track every time Sirius stares just a little too long, lets his hands linger as he passes over presents. These are Sirius' memories, locked away in a pensieve hidden under the floorboard. Memories of _him_.

Why?

The memory transitions to more flashes—Remus chewing on a quill, Remus reading a book, Remus sleeping, Remus, Remus, _Remus_. There are other flashes too, emotions that sting as they latch on for such brief moments—regret, anger, jealousy, hopelessness. The pensieve is a tangled mass of thought, emotion, and memories, all woven together and Remus can only choke as the memories go from happy to desperate. Another scene takes shape, and his heart sinks because he knows this memory too.

Tonks has just left the house, leaving nothing but warmth on Remus' cheek from where her lips pressed for just a moment. Sirius watches from the stairs, expressionless. But the memory is cold, and the man snorts as he steps down. The bitter emotions are seething—a roiling mass of heat.

"You leaving?" he asks, and Remus can see the scowl. He hasn't left Grimmauld Place in weeks and it's starting to take its toll.

Remus shrugs and turns away from the door. "In a little while." In truth, Remus hadn't wanted to leave. He never wanted to leave. "Sirius, I—"

Sirius shakes his head, and the ball of emotions heat up. "I still don't want to talk about it." He turns and stomps back up the stairs. He pauses at the top, hands shaking, and outside the memory Remus realizes that Sirius is waiting to see if he will follow.

He does.

"I _know_ you, Sirius," he starts, stopping at the top step, and Remus can feel how desperate Sirius is for him come closer, _be_ closer. "You need to talk about what's bothering you. You've always needed to, otherwise you just withdraw more and more until you can't handle it any more. Let's not let it get to that stage this time." His eyes are pleading, and Sirius looks away. "Just tell me about it, get it off your chest—"

"I don't want to talk about it!" Sirius roars suddenly, turning with blazing eyes. Remus jumps at the outburst, but Sirius keeps going. "I don't want to get it off my chest because talking about it requires thinking about it, and I've done _everything_ in my power to forget it!" He pauses to suck in a breath.

"Please, Remus." He's begging, silver eyes watering. "I'm so _tired_ of thinking about it." He slumps against the wall and puts his face in his hands.

Remus is frozen, and he can remember this exact moment—how he'd wanted nothing more than to hold Sirius and wipe away the tears he knew that he was hiding, and now his heart is breaking because he can feel how desperate Sirius had been: desperate for Remus to leave and desperate for Remus to stay.

In the memory, Remus steps forward, only to stop as Sirius recoils.

"Sirius," Remus murmurs.

"You have no idea how easy it is to fall back into the darkness," Sirius says quietly. His hands drop to his side and his head hits the wall as he looks to the ceiling. "And I'm so _tired_ of the dark, Moony."

It's silent for the next few moments, and then Remus takes the last few steps between them and rests against the wall beside him.

"Do you feel better now?" he asks.

Sirius gives Remus a small smile and looks over at him with sad eyes. Remus hates those eyes—hates that Sirius will never be the same again, that Azkaban has destroyed him through suffering and nightmares, but Remus still loves him. He had loved him then, and he always will.

The flashes are back, but they aren't quite the same. Remus gasps as they come into focus.

Sirius holding his hips.

Remus against the wall.

Fingers pulling hair, lips mashing together -

His first thought is— _That never happened._

His second thought is— _I really wish that it had happened._

Remus had asked Sirius, a masochistic curiosity after his outburst. "Don't you believe in love?" He tried not to sound hopeful.

Sirius never answered.

 _He loved me_ , Remus realizes. _He loved me. These memories…_ The next scene takes shape and Remus is reeling yet again.

The quidditch tent forms within the memory. James is leaving, and a harsh winter breeze tears through the flaps. The remaining people in the tent—mostly members of the Gryffindor team and a few close friends—follow the seeker with irritable grumbles.

Except Sirius.

He flies through the tent, picking things up and dropping them just as quickly, muttering. Remus slips in and watches with an amused smirk as the teen groans.

"What are you looking for?" he asks.

Sirius jumps with a small yelp and shoots him a look. "My scarf. I could have sworn I brought it when I came down with James, but I can't find it."

"Are you sure you didn't leave it in the tower?"

"No." Sirius pouts. "The game is about to start, though. I don't wanna go up and miss it. We're _finally_ going to rub Slytherin's face into the dirt." His pout turns into a scowl as he glares in the direction of the field. "Smug bastards."

Remus watches him fondly before heaving a sigh and unwrapping his own scarf from around his neck. Outside the memory, Remus can remember the cold biting at the newly exposed skin, but it had been nothing compared to the warmth he felt as he wrapped it about Sirius' neck.

The memory reflected that warmth—the blush on Sirius' cheeks is clear, now that Remus is looking for it, but back then he had thought it was just the cold.

"Ah," Sirius sighs, subtly shifting the scarf to cover his face. The scent comes back, alluring and inviting and all together calming. Remus can almost feel the smile spreading across his features. "But what about you? I don't wanna steal your scarf."

The feelings from the memory prove he feels rather differently.

Memory-Remus grins and shrugs his shoulders, pretending that it doesn't make him giddy to see Sirius in his clothes. "No big deal. Don't forget your scarf next time though, mate." He has a blush of his own as he moves towards the tent flap. "C'mon, let's get to the stands. Don't wanna miss the stunning defeat of your most hated enemies."

Sirius still has his nose buried in the scarf, so the small smile that Remus can just _feel_ soaking through the memory is hidden. "Thanks," he says, and the pair go up to the stands where, if they sit a little closer than appropriate, nobody can tell in the crowd of screaming Gryffindors.

Remus never had gotten that scarf back, and no one was any the wiser when Sirius had given him his own as a replacement. Remus pretended not to know. It was one of the best few weeks of winter—walking through school with Sirius' smell like a constant wave of warmth and calm. The memory reflects the same feelings.

But, it is as if the sky was falling down around him—Sirius _loved_ him. He loved him, Remus, the werewolf, the one who didn't believe him when he said he didn't kill the Potters. Remus, the supposed best friend, who let him rot in Azkaban, was the subject of Sirius Black's no-longer-so-hidden love. He can feel it filling the pensieve and all the memories within, warm and glowing and breathtaking. It fills him up from his toes to the crown of his head.

How could he have known? Remus can hardly breathe, and he wonders if it's possible to drown in a pensieve. He desperately searches for the boy through the memories now, brushing past the flashes of himself, watching as Sirius kisses girls and feels only an ache in his heart, watching him go out of his way to spend just a few more innocent seconds with Remus, watching the not so innocent fantasies that plagued him, praying that Remus never finds out, because what will Sirius do without Remus? Cool-headed Remus, the one who seems to know everything, who's too shy to look girls in the eye, who doesn't mind when Sirius and James take the credit for his amazing ideas, Remus, Remus, _Remus—_

The oldest memory inside Sirius' pensieve is of when they first met.

"I'm Sirius," the young boy exclaims, smiling brightly, grey eyes sparkling almost silver in the light. "Sirius Black."

" _Remus!_ "

Suddenly, the warmth is gone and all that is left is a suffocating feeling constricting his chest. Tonks has him in her arms, wand pointed at the pensieve suspiciously, frantically glancing back and forth between it and him.

"Remus, are you alright?! What the bloody hell were you thinking?!" She drops the wand to pat him down, hair white from her fear. "This place is full of cursed items, why would you just stick your head into some old pensieve? Remus!" Her hands rest on his cheeks and, suddenly, she goes silent, hair slowly morphing to her normal bubble gum pink. He stares at her, mouth open, simply struggling to breathe.

"Remus," she says slowly, "why are you crying?"

He frowns and presses the pads of his fingers to his cheek, watching blankly as a tear rolls down into his palm. His entire existence aches as if he had been the loser of a rather fantastic duel. It's his heart that hurts the most, as though he were bleeding from the inside—it takes a minute for air to travel smoothly through his lungs again and he's struck with the feeling that something isn't _right_.

"I…" Remus starts, only to cough hard into his hand. Tonks rubs his back soothingly until the fit stops, and when it does he stares blankly at the pensieve.

"I don't know."

He tilts his head to the side and contemplates looking again—but the Pensieve is empty. There weren't any memories in it. It didn't make sense, though. Why would Sirius have an empty pensieve hidden under the floorboards?

Why is he crying?

Tonks sits back on her heels and sighs in relief. "You're lucky that thing didn't kill you," she grumbles. "Last thing I picked up in this blasted place launched me across the room."

He vaguely hears her voice, but Remus can't keep his eyes off the pensieve. He leans forward and takes it into his hands, brushing over Tonks' exclamation of concern. It's warm against his skin and a few drops of salty water drip onto the stone. The ache returns double fold and he's swallowing down sobs, cradling the basin in his arms.

It's empty.

* * *

He had first realized that he loved Remus Lupin the second night of their first year when the sickly Gryffindor had given Sirius a smile that nobody had ever given him before.

He had realized it again when Remus Lupin had started to cry out of fear that they would abandon him when they had found out he was a werewolf.

Still, he had only truly accepted it after the fear that Remus Lupin wouldn't forgive him for his sins had dealt a blow that even his mother's harshest words couldn't compare to.

In the end, he only realized that his love was eternal when, even after twelve tortured years in hell-on-Earth, seeing Remus Lupin again was the only thing that made everything seem okay.


End file.
